


Can We Meet?

by kalx58



Category: The Report (2019)
Genre: Casual Sex, Come Marking, Consensual Somnophilia, F/M, Facials, Otherwise morally upright fuckboy, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sudoku, rough ish sex, vaguely character study but porn, when you're a selfish lover because you're so busy trying to expose the united states' war crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25606375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalx58/pseuds/kalx58
Summary: She understands what he needs. Likes it, even. Which always surprises him a little.
Relationships: Daniel Jones/ OFC
Comments: 21
Kudos: 102





	Can We Meet?

**Author's Note:**

> A series of events: on Saturday, I watched The Report. On Monday, there coincidentally happened to be [lots](https://mobile.twitter.com/theriseofswolo/status/1287887471888551936) of [very](https://mobile.twitter.com/paleswhore/status/1287906157328314373) [fun](https://mobile.twitter.com/darthjessa/status/1287902475828244482) and [very horny](https://mobile.twitter.com/adamsmackler/status/1287981081065672704) discussions about the movie on Twitter. This, which I wrote on Tuesday, is inspired by those. I usually write slowly and tend to obsess, so it was fun to write something quickly.
> 
> Obviously, this has no bearing on reality and I pray to my gods that the real Daniel Jones' family never visits AO3. (My alternate title for this was ["Me and Mr. Jones](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8kvb-pJEeEI)," with the iconic lyrics, "What kind of fuckery is this?" which also sums it up.)
> 
> (Also, before we get to the porn: I highly recommend the movie! Even if you're fully aware, like I was, about the torture that happened, seeing the extent of it, how the flimsy the reasoning for enhanced interrogation was, the extent of the inhumanity and how hard both parties worked to hide what happened...I learned a lot, and was glad I watched it As An American™️ especially since we love to forget our recent history. And since Amazon owns the movie it'll likely be free streaming on Prime forever. Okay time for some come marking) 
> 
> Please mind the tags and let me know if I forgot something!

Something stabs Dan’s foot as he walks through the dark room. He curses, remembering to do it quietly, and kicks the offending high heel to the side. He forgets how messy she is. He likes it—the opposite of the ordered overwhelm of his days, the pages and pages of documents, their perfect neat lines describing endless, terrible things. But it still fucking hurts, and he’s irritated as he approaches the bed. 

The feeling grows when he sees her, sprawled out naked on the bed. He’s not mad at her, exactly. It’s more—that she gets to look so peaceful and happy, even in sleep, emotions that at this point seem so far from his everyday that he can’t even really remember what it was like to feel as relaxed as she looks now. He wonders if that’ll start bothering her. That any day now, she’ll realize she wants more, and might slip through his fingers like everything else in his life not related to that goddamn report.

And the resulting surge of anger from those thoughts is what has him throwing off his jacket and unbuttoning his pants, ready to disturb her peaceful sleep. He crawls onto the bed, palming his erection, and just looks at her a second. Limbs akimbo, face buried in a pillow, ass tilted up. He runs a hand over it—her skin is soft, in a way that surprises him every time—noticing the way her right knee is hiked up. Giving him easy access, he thinks, as he quietly moves closer, bracing one arm above her. Almost like she wants to make this easier for him, even in her sleep. 

“Dan?” she asks, voice rough, as he slides a hand under her hips, rubbing at her cunt. It sounds pleased and intimate. Lover-like, like he’s someone who’s able to have relationships. He’s not sure he likes that tone. It feels like a lie. 

“Yeah. It’s just me,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.” 

She acquiesces, letting out a growling little yawn and tucking back into herself. He gives a perfunctory circle over her clit, fingers rubbing around her folds—come on, he thinks, still a little frustrated—dragging the moisture around her cunt. He needs her to be wet. He’s surprised when he slowly presses a finger in and discovers that she already is, as wet as if she’d already—he glances at her nightstand, noticing the vibrator charging. Ah. She’d been excited for this. (“You’re sure?” he’d asked, trying to clarify exactly what she meant when she brought it up. “Even when you’re—?” Dan liked clarity and boundaries. Required them. “Yeah,” she’d said with a shrug. “It’s hot. And you seem like you need it.”) 

He takes her eagerness as a sign to fuck her more quickly with his finger, and adds another. The sound of them, wet and lewd, combines with her light snores, and suddenly impatient, he pulls out his cock. Her legs spread for him easily, with no resistance, and he sets himself at her entrance, pushing in slowly. As he moves, he notices little flickers of awareness from her body. A hand twitching, a burble of noise. But she remains relaxed and pliant as he bottoms out, and he heaves a sigh, fully exhaling for the first time in what feels like days. Fuck, she feels good. And this—knowing that he can have this, this perfect heat, whenever he wants, even when she’s asleep—is overwhelming, in a way that blots out everything else. 

He tests her, starting out slowly, seeing how much she can take before she stirs. “Hrnghh,” she says after one deep thrust, twisting her upper body so he can see a bit of her, her cheek on the pillow, the change in angle making him gasp. 

He tries to quiet her, to soothe her back to sleep with gentle, rocking strokes. But then he gets impatient. The day catches up to him, and he can’t be slow or restrained or polite any longer, and he drives into her, faster now, his breathing harsh. She sighs at one point, turning to curl into herself, away from him, causing him to slide out of her body. And that won’t do, so he grabs her shoulders gently—she’s strong, but so malleable like this—and easily arranges her to his liking, groaning at the return of her cunt. She makes snuffly noises into the pillow as she artlessly pushes her hips into the mattress, her body half aware of what’s happening. 

He likes this, her docileness, how completely her body yields to him. More than seems appropriate, maybe. But Dan’s had a lot of time to think about right and wrong lately, and maybe she was right, maybe he does need this. The simple physicality of fucking her like an animal after so many hours of writing and researching and thinking. So much thinking. But no matter how hard he thinks, he still can’t make sense of the terrible things he keeps discovering. 

He starts pumping into her faster, and she jostles with his thrusts. But she takes them, unbothered, accepting his rage and helplessness into her warm, pliable body. 

* * *

She understands what he needs. Likes it, even. Which always surprises him a little. The way she’s completely fine when he comes over at 11 p.m. to fuck her from behind, barely saying anything as he holds her down by the back of her neck, and then leaving before she’s had a chance to come, pulled away by a call from a CIA source. The way she doesn’t seem to silently want more, that she’s fine with the way things are: no flowers. No dates. Barely any foreplay 

He’s not sure why this works for her. She’s probably busy in the way that everyone in DC is busy. And he doesn’t think about it too hard, because he simply doesn’t have time to think about anything else besides how much the President knew, what happened to detainee 37, and the very real possibility that this thing will never see the light of day.

* * *

Once, she’d teased him. He’d been poised at her entrance, his body ready for the exhaling contentment of sinking into her. But then she’d rolled away across the bed, eyes flashing with laughter. 

He had such little time, and here she was, messing with him. He was so frustrated, and when he’d gritted out, “Fuck,” it had come out as a yell. He’d been surprised—he spent his days swallowing so much anger, he almost didn’t think he was capable of it any more—and mildly embarrassed. But her eyes had grown big and her lips had fallen open, and he’d realized she liked it.

So he let himself pull her hair, and stalk after her, and growl at her to take it, as mean as he felt like, as mean as he needed to be, and her chest had risen and falling rapidly underneath him as she just stared, rapt and willing. 

* * *

Sometimes, he has to hold her still. Tight enough to bruise, maybe. Just when she’s panting and squirming. When she’s begging him in a broken voice, please, please, please Dan. He always hopes she doesn’t mean anything more than please, make me come because he has so little of himself left. He can’t offer her anything more.

(And honestly, sometimes he can’t even manage that, and she has to frantically rub her clit while he sleepily mouths at her breasts, his come dripping out of her. He’d fallen asleep on her chest that night, woken up two hours later, starving and disoriented, staring at her nipples.)

* * *

One night, he pulls out and comes on her face. And then he’d gotten a call from someone with a lead on one of the detainees they hadn’t managed to find any other information on, a call that necessitated him sprinting away five minutes later, his mind still dull from the orgasm. But the sight of it: all over her eyelashes as she’d blinked up at him, not looking mad like she probably should have (he hadn’t asked her), but calmly satisfied instead, her pink tongue darting out to lick a dot of come from her lips. 

He’d meant to eat her out that night. Wanted to bury himself between her thighs and think of nothing but her smell, her taste, have her noises drown out the awful words constantly cycling through his brain. He’d wanted to give her something this time. 

He felt guilty about it the next day, during the few minutes he allowed himself for non work emotions. He’d even pulled up the number of a flower shop on 18th. And then he’d gotten distracted by a new document Julian had discovered and moved on, because he had to. 

* * *

It’s almost a routine. Afterwards, both of them panting, him taking a minute to regroup: tucking his shirt back in, smoothing his hair. He always looks the same after as he does when he walks in. She doesn’t. Mascara smudged, breasts red from his bites, underwear soaked and unusable and flung across the room. They both seem to like it that way. 

  
  


* * *

She’s watching a reality show when he comes in one night, and stands to greet him. She opens her mouth to say something, maybe about how he looks especially tired today, an air of rumpledness encompassing not his clothes but his entire being, but he stops her.

“Can I just—” he says, standing in front of her and pushing her at her shoulders gently, until she’s sitting back down on the couch. She moves to unbuckle him, but he’s already got his pants down, and he sighs as she sucks him obediently into her mouth, her hand moving to cup his balls.

As she works to take him deeper, Dan stares into her cleavage. Her nipples are pink and huge—she’s turned on—and he thinks about fucking her tits. Grabbing the lube from her nightstand and coating them, holding them together tightly, pressing himself through the tight channel. He licks his lips, hips stuttering. She lets out a surprised noise—he might have choked her a little—but keeps going. 

And then he wonders for a brief second if he could reach down and grab one of her breasts, squeeze and heft it in his palm as she sucks him, but he doesn’t want to interrupt this, and he really doesn’t have the time to even be here, probably. So instead he just shoves a little further, digging his fingers into her hair, fucking her mouth as she lets out eager little noises.

* * *

He always sends her the same text: Can we meet? Brief and to the point, the same thing he sent sources, CIA aides, Feinstein’s office. She said no sometimes—he imagined pitchers of margaritas, movie nights with friends, her own nihilistic nights where she stared at the ceiling and cursed the dysfunction and stagnation that swallowed this town and ran through their government like a virus—but more often than not, she sent back: Sure. 15? 

Once, after he’d bounced her on his lap on the couch until they both came, CSPAN on in the background, he’d asked her.

“Is this okay?” 

“This” encompassing: the fact that I’m barely verbal by the time that I get here, the way I’m distracted and selfish like my ex said when she left, how I text you way too late and only for sex, like an asshole Georgetown freshman, the bruise on your hip that’s probably from me. 

“Yeah,” she’d said, looking at him and smiling. She seems pleasantly surprised by the question. “This works for me. And I know how busy you are.”

His thoughts have already started drifting to tomorrow, a niggling lead on detainee 14 he can’t quite seem to grasp the thread of. He pulls out his phone to make a note of something. At first he doesn’t catch what she says next, her tone dry.

“And besides. If you’re more relaxed, maybe you’ll finish that report faster. This is my patriotic duty. Didn't you see my flag pin?”

He turns, confused. Then realizes she’s joking (had he known she was funny?) and his lips twitch briefly, before he turns back to his phone 

* * *

She’s sitting on her knees behind him, rubbing his back. 

“So tense,” she chides, pressing at his skin with a surprising, satisfying firmness.

“DiFi is really working you into the ground,” she says, hands moving up to his shoulders. 

He grunts, hunching to give her better access. It feels good. The massage, and her breasts, pressed firmly against his back. And then he reaches down next to him to grab her thigh, and grips it as he turns around, pressing her into the mattress, because he doesn’t have time for any kind of pleasure that isn’t their bodies sliding together between her unmade sheets. 

* * *

There’s one particularly bad day. He knows that the report may never be released. It’s a threat always hanging over him, as heavy as the season’s humidity, but tonight he keeps thinking about it. That it’s all for nothing, that there’ll be no record of anything, that even he, Dan Jones, might disappear into nothingness, yet another forgotten name. And yeah, that’s all swirling in his head, but maybe he also just wants to see her tits covered in his come, to see it drip over the freckles on her collarbone, to make her rub it in while he watches.

* * *

It helped, he found. The few hours he slept, he slept better. It didn’t interfere with work. He wasn’t distracted. The last hour of work he’d make a quick decision, send the text and then not think about it until he read her response. If she wasn’t around, he’d fuck his hand in he shower. 

He ignores the part of him that screams out to tell someone, how he wants to whisper his worries and discoveries into the pillow or the curve of her lower back. 

* * *

She’s in a faded UPenn teeshirt and sweats, but she’s wearing her makeup from work, he thinks. Her lips are a tasteful, office-approved shade of pink that probably doesn’t exist in nature, and as he presses himself between her lips, watching her cheeks hollow around him, he makes it his goal to smudge it before he comes. 

And so he’s a little rough (holding her hair and tracing her mouth with it as she looks up at him), and she drools a lot, and he comes quickly enough when she closes her eyes and sets all of her considerable focus on the tip. And when he blinks his eyes open, he realizes with satisfaction that it’s smeared, her neat application now resembling a child’s crayon scribbles. 

He pulls her up next to him on the bed. “I only have ten minutes,” he says, squeezing one of her tits. 

He’d meant to follow it up with, is there anything I can do for you in those ten minutes, but at his words, she bites her lip. Her eyes are lidded, turned on. 

Oh, Dan thinks. 

He presses a finger into her (he wonders idly if she touches herself before he comes over. She’s always drenched) then another. Maybe too quickly. 

“I could just leave you here like this.” 

He fingers her with his left hand, thumb on her clit, his right hand pinching and playing with her nipples. 

“You’d be like this until I texted you again. So desperate.” A new surge of arousal slicks his fingers.

“You’re dripping all over me. You’re going to get it on my watch.” 

She looks at him, her face flushed, whimpering. He’s not smiling, and he knows probably he looks stern. 

He checks his watch, the motion twisting his wrist, fucking her from a slightly different angle. He really does need to leave. “You have to come fast,” he whispers, movements rough, and then he angles his fingers to brush the spot on the front of her walls and she falls apart in front of him, right before his deadline. 

* * *

  
  


He notices a tennis racket tossed across her armchair one day. He thinks about her in a tennis skirt, strong thighs tensed as she waits for the ball, the hem riding up a little. He almost asks her where she plays, finds that he’s genuinely curious. But even that small conversation would take time he doesn’t have, and he ignores the impulse, shrugging back into his jacket to leave, already counting back the hours until he has to be at work. 

* * *

She works late too, sometimes. It’s one of those nights, where she’s still in her work clothes: neat button up and pencil skirt. He’d shoved it up, bending her over the couch. She’d squeaked a little as he’d pushed in, and he’d slowed. 

But now she keeps moving, shoving back on him. Goddammit, he doesn’t want to move that fast. Because that means he’ll come, and he wants to enjoy being surrounded by her warmth, this temporary reprieve from everything in his life, for just a little longer

He grips her hips under the waistband of her skirt, trying to keep her in place. She makes an inpatient harrumphing noise, forced into stillness. But he doesn’t really care how fast she wants to go, because he wants to go slower, wants to enjoy the relaxed, almost luxurious feeling of setting the pace. For once, he’s the one with the power. Something is going to happen on his timeline. 

And now she’s moaning at his relaxed movements—yeah, he figured—her ass shaking a little. He slaps it once, hard, to see it move again and she gasps, worming a hand under her skirt to touch herself. He comes a second after she does, and he feels so relaxed right now, slumped over her and breathing hard, letting himself have one minute before he has to get up and head home, leaving her deposited back on the couch, panting and full of his come as she watches The Bachelor, or whatever else she does after he leaves.

* * *

He manages to not wake her, despite the increasing desperation and sloppiness of his thrusts, or the snarl that escapes him as he gets close. When he spills into her cunt, it’s with a drawn out grunt. For a second, he can't move. He fights the urge to collapse onto the bed next to her. She’s always so warm. Or maybe it’s just that the basement is freezing. He wants to stay inside he until he softens and fuck her again in the morning, laying on their sides, lazily grabbing handfuls of her breast as he drives into her. Instead, he withdraws. He watches the last of his come drip onto her ass, rubs it in gently before he stands. 

He looks at her sleeping form, framed by the shadows, slowly pulling the door shut so it doesn’t make a noise. He steps into the kitchen, frowning at the pile of detritus on the counter: an open wine bottle, a messy stack of papers, four pens, a handful of tampons, a crumpled Politics and Prose receipt. There’s also a newspaper, open to a half filled-out game of Sudoku, and he stares at it as he grabs a glass. It’s strange, coming here and then leaving without talking to her, no proof he’d ever been here. He takes one of the pens and fills in one of her missing squares.

As he fills his glass with water from the fridge, he looks at the note held up with a magnet in the shape of Oregon. She leaves Post-Its for herself around, he’s noticed, reminders and to-dos, and her messy handwriting makes this particular list fill the entire square:

  * Resole J. Simp low heels pre-J’s bachelorette 
  * Call mom re: turkey day, stay strong 
  * Book club (Stat. 11) due 11/3 ← read all of it, she’ll know 
  * Increase 401k contribution?
  * NO! MORE! DIET! COKE!



Each scribbled line makes a image flash in his brain, a scene from a full, colorful life, far away from the fluorescent-lit basement, unending stacks of paper, the uncensored reality of the war’s horrors. Maybe. One day. When he’s done—but he shakes himself, putting the cup in the sink, preparing to leave. This is his life. The report, and nothing else. There’s no point in thinking about after. 

**Author's Note:**

> Consensual somnophilia always feels like UTI: the fic so let us assume she woke up ten minutes after he left, peed and then fell back asleep to pleasant dreams of attractive men and Sudoku.


End file.
